The Rose
Look at the rose,
Shriveled and wilted.
Petals drooped low,
Disfigured and tilted.
Weathered the gale,
Baked in the heat.
Survived the trail,
At the end met defeat.
Do you not judge,
How she looks now?
Broken and leaning,
Far to the ground?
I bet she is stronger,
Than you or I think.
Though she’s lived longer
Her color stays pink.
Death may be near,
But she’s wiser than I.
She does not fear
The next chapter in life.
One last cold night,
She cannot hold on.
Though try with her might,
Collapses at dawn.
Copyright © Monique Brandt | Year Posted 2012
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